


Seven Holy Days

by pyrrhocorax (mniotilta)



Series: Dennor Week [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 00:42:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3916819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mniotilta/pseuds/pyrrhocorax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And God said, let there be DenNor (a series of things written for DenNor week).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Monday

**Author's Note:**

> Halvard Sørensen is my name for Norway, with Halle being the short form of it.  
> Henrik Pedersen is my name for Denmark.  
> Jóhannes Hrafnsson is my name for Iceland, with Jói being the short form.
> 
> Food mentions just as a warning. The prompt was "Cuddle."

A spring day in Copenhagen. Rain in the afternoon. Average.  
  
Today Halvard doesn't have an umbrella with him—only a thick red raincoat and high waterproof boots—as he makes his way down the many crisscrossing streets of the Danish capitol. He's fond of the gloomy weather and the way water scatters under his feet as he steps through puddles. For him, today's mood suits him just fine, and for a day named after the moon, the lack of a single sun ray is fitting.  
  
He walks with haste though, for as much as he likes the way the rain tastes on his lips when a stray drop hits them, he's had enough of being outside. It is a long walk from the pier that he came from to where he wants to go.  
  
Halvard passes buses, bicyclists, pedestrians, his gaze pointed at the ground asides from quick glances at road signs to check his location (even though he knows exactly where he is), and yawns. He stops for a minute to watch a cat clean itself in the shelter of an overhanging roof until the cat notices his presence and stares right at him. _“Shouldn't you be going?”_ it seems to be asking him as it stands up on all fours and meows loudly. _“Dawdling isn't going to help you in the slightest, Halle.”_  
  
He scoffs at his internal monologue that he projected onto the cat and hurries off.

* * *

  
As far out as he is now, Halvard scolds himself for not taking the bus, but only gently, for he has had a good time walking around the city.  
  
He passes by a house with cracking aged paint and potted plants that have not yet produced flowers and makes a sharp turn, walking up to the doorstep. From his pockets he fetches a set of keys and sorts through them to find the one he's looking for. In Halvard's honest opinion, he has too many damn keys. His own house, various governmental keys, Jóhannes' apartment in Reykjavik, Berwald's house, Berwald's _cabin_ , his own cabin, a bunch of keys he had been given with no intention of using… he flips through them fast, the names and uses flying off his tongue, until his fingers stop on a familiar key, with edges worn and metal scratched and dull.  
  
He inserts the key into the slot, turns it, and he's inside without any effort at all.

* * *

  
After removing his rain gear and shoes, Halvard takes a minute to enjoy the relative silence of Henrik's house. He strolls into the kitchen and stops at the refrigerator which has a small whiteboard on it. The only thing written is “Remember—you don't have Saturday free!” to which Halvard wonders what exactly Henrik is doing that day.  
  
He takes the marker from its holder and uncaps it, pausing for a second before writing underneath Henrik's message in Norwegian: “You need to repaint your house.”  
  
After returning the marker and rereading what he had written, he opens the refrigerator, finds a half eaten cake, and after some rummaging around for a plate and a fork, cuts himself a slice.  
  
It's still quiet without anyone here. Henrik's mere existence is loud and when the whole family gathers here on a few select holidays every few years, Halvard sometimes finds himself sneaking off to the bathroom or outside to escape the noise. But for now, with only the light from outside and the raindrops, he sits in a rare moment of silence, eating cake, on a Monday, in the house of someone he loves very much.

* * *

  
The benefit of having close long-standing friends is that you can leave things with them and expect them to be there when you return.  
  
He has to dig past a bin of Jóhannes' patterned sweaters, some of which he's probably grown out of by now, but he quietly admits victory to himself as he finds a pair of pajamas that have remained here for nearly fifteen years.  
  
He changes right then and there, in the space between the closet and the bedroom, folds the clothes he was wearing, and places them neatly on top of his brother's woolen sweaters. Halvard then sits on the edge of the bed and counts the number of items on Henrik's nightstand. A cord that without a doubt plugs into a cellular phone, poking out from behind the wall and curling like a snake on the tabletop. There's some spare kroner scattered about, only enough to buy a couple scoops of ice cream. A glass of water half empty. There's a polaroid photo labeled “Christmas, 1991” that is framed.  
  
The picture has Henrik in the middle, grinning from ear to ear, with his one arm around Halvard and the other around Berwald, with Jóhannes beneath him and Tino and Eduard (who Tino insisted on having that year) giving each other bunny ears off to the side. Even if Henrik was smiling the largest, the reason why this was treasured by the Dane enough to be framed was because it was one of the only pictures that existed of everyone smiling together.  
  
Halvard cannot help but smile now, too.

* * *

  
He doesn't remember when he drifted off to sleep, but finds himself stirring out of it when he senses pressure on the bed, opening his eyes to see Henrik sitting on the edge, smiling at him.  
  
“If you told me you were coming I would've stayed home,” Henrik laughs, rubbing Halvard's side softly. “I noticed your message about the paint. It's on my list of things to do.”  
  
“I'll help you, if you want,” Halvard replies, closing his eyes again, “To make sure you do it right.”  
  
A pause. Henrik stands up and judging by the sound of his footsteps, Halvard assumes he's going to open a drawer—ah yes, there's the sound—and undress to put on something more comfortable. The rain is still pouring down, perhaps harder now, as it drums on the roof above their heads. Was that thunder or simply the sounds of the city in motion?  
  
Halvard knows Henrik is trying to be quiet as he slips into bed, but the sound and movement disrupts the emptiness and so Halvard rolls over to face Henrik with his eyes wide open.  
  
“I'm not tired anymore.”  
  
“I'm not either, Halle, but that doesn't mean we can't lay here for a while. I'm cold.”  
  
The Norwegian mouths “fine,” but his vocal cords don't bring it to fruition. He reaches out to pull Henrik closer to his chest and softly strokes the back of his neck, humming an old folk tune as he moves his fingers. In return, Henrik slides his hands up Halvard's shirt and drums across his spine to the rhythm of the beat.  
  
The music lasts for half an hour. Then they get up, eat dinner, and talk about the little things in life.


	2. Tuesday

Midsummer is the time of daylight.  
  
In contrast to the dim Nordic winters, near constant sunlight filters down through the trees and bathes the forest floor. Past the woods, in the open grasslands of Fokstumyra National Reserve, a Lapland Longspur sings like a squeaking swing set. It is here, in the marshlands, where two people hike through the mud and tall reeds, occasionally stopping to enjoy the breeze and birdcalls on an early morning.  
  
“Norway,” Halvard says, cracking his knuckles as he waits for Henrik to catch up with him, “clearly has better national parks than Denmark.”  
  
“I still think that's open to debate, Halle.”  
  
With a skeptical stare, Halvard opens his arms out to gesture towards mountains in the distance before placing his hands on his hips, effectively proving his point.  
  
“Okay, first of all—mind your step Halle, the mud is deep there—you just can't compare your national parks to mine. I agree that this is beautiful, but comparing Norway to Denmark is like comparing cats to dogs.”  
  
“Yeah, but nobody likes flat lands.”  
  
Henrik laughs. “But you like me!”  
  
Halvard takes a deep breath of country air and sighs deeply. “Liking you as a person and liking the landscape of your country is completely different. Nobody likes it asides from the Danes themselves, you _flat lands_.”  
  
“Oh, so we're _name calling_ now? That can go both ways, you hunk of mountain!”  
  
“The way you're saying that just makes you sound like you're hitting on me.”  
  
Henrik snaps his fingers and points them at Halvard. “Exactly.”  
  
The Norwegian sighs, takes Henrik's hand, insults Denmark's flatness again, and leads him farther into the unknown.  
  


* * *

 

On a hillside, they sit overlooking the land below and unpack the food they brought with them, watching a flock of ducks land on Lake Horrtjønnin. Henrik breaks off a piece of bread and passes it to Halvard, who eats it without a word.  
  
“Hey Halle?”  
  
“What.”  
  
“What's the first memory that comes to mind, sitting up here like this?”  
  
“Well,” he began, and then paused, thinking. “Sometime in the 900s, we were hanging out during a summer like this one when I heard an animal and we went to investigate. It was a fox who had gotten stuck in a hole and couldn't climb out, and you were determined to impress me, and so you decided to get it out.”  
  
“Did I impress you?”  
  
“No. I thought you were an idiot, because you stuck your hand down the hole without thinking and got your hand all bit up. Honestly, I was furious at the time both at your recklessness and the fact that you decided to let the fox go once you had dragged it out. You would've gotten good money for that pelt, but...”  
  
“But?”  
  
Halvard runs a hand through his hair and turns away to avoid looking at him, even out of the corner of his eyes. “But. I admired that too. That you let it go. You were kind, even though it had injured you.”  
  
He takes a shallow breath and musters up the strength to make a quick glance, trying to gauge Henrik's reaction before finishing. “And I've always admired that part of you, because while you're most certainly tough and plenty capable of being vicious, you're also endlessly forgiving and gentle, especially towards me.”  
  
“I can honestly say the same thing about you.”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“See, I remember you being mad at me and scolding me about the fox, but while you were doing so you immediately took my hands and started to fuss over my cuts! You were scowling because you were worried about me, even though the damage the fox's teeth had done was next to nothing.”  
  
Henrik tosses Halvard an apple. “And, later that night, when we were curled up next to each other trying to sleep, you started laughing, cradling my bandaged fingers, and told me I was like a cheap version of Tyr! Instead of my hand being bit clean off by a monstrous wolf, I just became a chew toy for a fox! And you were practically crying you were laughing so hard.”  
  
“Well, the whole situation seemed like something out of a fairy tale to begin with, and when I realized it reminded me of one…”  
  
“You're cute.”  
  
Halvard bites into the apple to buy himself more time to form his words, chewing slowly. He takes another bite, and then another, watching the ducks play on water. A swallow. His eyes gaze down at the apple core in his hands, twirling it carefully. “Even though I compared you to Tyr,” he mumbles, “I always liked you a lot more. You're a much better man than he was, I'm glad that fox didn't bite your hand off, and I'm glad that you and I are still around on this planet.”  
  
Henrik doesn't respond, but closes his eyes and smiles, nodding, the sun shining down on his freckled face. Halvard doesn't speak either, instead he scoots closer, quietly leans his head onto Henrik's shoulder, gazing at the clouds rolling lazily over the horizon towards them.  
  
Here, in this moment, where everything feels right, Halvard kisses Henrik softly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt of this day was "Fairy Tale."
> 
> Tyr is the Norse god of glory and order, most notably losing his hand when binding the great wolf Fenrir. Tyr is also where the modern word “Tuesday” comes from in a lot of Germanic languages. 
> 
> The Fokstumyra Nature Reserve is located in the Dovrefjell mountains of Norway. 
> 
> I would like to thank the Cornell Lab of Ornithology's eBird program for information about what birds are found in Norway and at what times and where.


	3. Wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Blood, injuries, and animal death.   
> Set during the Viking era.

He runs and he runs and he runs.  
  
The moon doesn't shine tonight, so only by the faint light of the stars does Halvard run as fast as he can down the snow covered slopes, gasping for breath with axe in hand. He follows the sound of screaming in the distance, branches scratching his face as he pushes his way through the darkness. There's blood on the ground—he can smell it—and it makes his stomach churn in dread. A sign of a struggle, a bit of ripped clothing soaked red lying limply on the ground. Another scream, louder and closer this time, and he can hear his name being called.  
  
Were it not for the adrenaline and pure rage pumping through his veins, Halvard would've felt, for perhaps the first time in his life, scared.  
  
All this time he failed to notice the shouts coming from behind him, and so when Henrik passes him, he's spooked and nearly falls face forward into the crisp snow. Henrik had always been the faster of the two, usually taunting Halvard with every bound he took ahead of him, but he made no such jokes this time. He, too, was equally as afraid, and as they momentarily locked eyes, Halvard saw only a mix of determination and dread. Those were probably the same emotions reflected in his own eyes, normally devoid of such expressiveness.  
  
An owl hoots. A wolf snarls. Halvard watches Henrik disappear over a snowbank, screaming with his sword held high.  
  
The sound of cracking bone and slicing flesh rings through the forest, and Halvard finally sees his younger brother—bloody, barely struggling at this point, but still very much alive—with four different wolves on top of him, their heads all turned towards Henrik and the fifth wolf that he's just split in two.  
  
“Halle!” Henrik barks, continuing to barrel his way towards the pack.  
  
Halvard doesn't need another reminder. He, through sheer willpower alone, manages to out-speed Henrik, and brings his axe down hard, shattering the skull of one wolf and getting it stuck in its forehead the process. He swears, launching himself at the next closest one with only his fists brandished, his own teeth bared as he tackles the animal to the ground, attacking it as brutally as he can as it fights back with its own fangs and claws.  
  
Halvard's senses come back to him slowly. His body stings, and then aches, from the bite marks on his body and the strain he exhibited on his muscles. The wolf is dead, his hands are painted red, and he can taste the mixture of blood and sweat that covers his face. He breathes, still rapidly. And then he remembers. The sound of howling. How brutal this winter was. A lack of food. Desperation among the animals. Starvation. Abduction. Panic. Running. Darkness. Faster. Henrik. Snow. Blood. Life. Death.  
  
His brother.  
  
Halvard slams his hands into the snow and wildly gasps for breath as he turns around. He crawls over to Henrik on all fours, too exhausted and frazzled to stand, and tries to call out Jóhannes' name several times but his lungs fail him.  
  
“He's in bad shape,” Henrik mutters, tearing strips of fabric off of his tunic to make temporary bandages. “But I think he'll live if we act quickly. The other wolves ran off, but did you see them? How skinny they were? They're probably at death's door already if they're sneaking into camps and stealing children. They're just as hungry as we are. It's not going to be pretty for either of us if we stay here. We need to leave this area as soon as we can.”  
  
Henrik keeps talking as he works, but that only makes Halvard frown more. He's chatty because he's less sure of Jóhannes' condition than what he said aloud. Henrik is scared, Halvard can see it in his eyes and the way his hands are shaking as he finishes dressing the last gash.  
  
“We need to get back to camp,” Henrik begins, “but we need to address your wounds too. You're torn up really bad.”  
  
“Jói takes priority,” Halvard's voice cracks as he responds. “We need to get back _now_.”  
  
“No, you need medical attention too.”  
  
“We don't have the _time_ , Henrik! I'm fine!”  
  
“Halle you're going to bleed out and die!”  
  
“Listen,” Halvard growls, “I don't care! If Jóhannes has any shot of living, even at the cost of my own life, we're going to make that choice.”  
  
“This isn't about what _you_ want! I know you love Jóhannes, but it's not like I don't love him _too_ , Halle! We're a team! We're a family! If you go down, there's no way for me to care for him without both of us starving to death. If you die, there's no way that he's going to live! And I most certainly can't make it through the rest of winter on my own either!”  
  
Henrik is on his feet now, standing, his fists clenched and shaking, with tears streaming down his cheeks.  
  
“I wouldn't be able to live with myself,” he chokes, “if you died a preventable death.”  
  
“Halvard,” and the owner of that name jumps at hearing Henrik say it in full. “I can't lose both of you.”  
  
The nation that will one day be known as Norway hesitates, extends his arm out, and watches Henrik sit back down to begin bandaging a long cut running down from his shoulders.  
  
“I'm sorry,” he whispers, wincing as Henrik works hastily.  
  
“It's okay. I'm sorry for yelling,” Henrik bites his lip in concentration. “We can make up properly later.”  
  
The walk back up the hillside, with Jóhannes on Henrik's back and Halvard dragging the wolf corpses behind him, is as slow as it is cold.

* * *

_Monday's child is fair of face,_  
_Tuesday's child is full of grace,_  
_Wednesday's child is full of woe,_  
_Thursday's child has far to go,_  
_Friday's child is loving and giving,_  
_Saturday's child works hard for a living,_  
_But the child who is born on the Sabbath day_  
_Is fair and wise and good in every way_.  
  
_Thus Wednesday's child knows of pain,_  
_And stands alone in the pouring rain,_  
_But while Wednesday's child is full of woe,_  
_With cuts and bruises from head to toe,_  
_Wicked brambles form a crown,_  
_And sadness woven in a gown_ ,  
_Waves of sorrow give way to day,_  
_Of light and love and thus we say,_  
_That Wednesday's child is full of bliss,_  
_And were he to die, he'd surely be missed._  
  
Therefore, we exist to find joy, joy, joy.

* * *

  
When the sun manages to peak above the horizon sometime around the following afternoon, the three of them are piled close around each other to retain heat.  
  
Henrik counts how many hearts he can feel beating.  
  
One.  
  
Two.  
  
And his own.  
  
It was cold. He was ravenously hungry. And deep down, he knew that they could very well lose their battle against the elements.  
  
But they were alive.  
  
And so he takes a deep breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes:
> 
> \- Monday’s Child is an English nursery rhyme. I expanded on it and gave it extra verses.
> 
> \- Being close to the poles, Nordic countries have long dark winters, in some places only having a few hours of daylight (if that) per day.


	4. Thursday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for brief food mentions maybe??

On the sixteenth day of the month of June in the year of 2011, the Norwegian Broadcasting Corporation began a live TV broadcast of a ship traveling from Bergen to Kirkenes, documenting non-stop the journey it took.  
  
On this same Thursday evening, Halvard raced around his house after getting home from a late meeting in parliament, dragging the blankets off his bed and into his living room and throwing boxes and bags of snacks hastily onto the table that's sitting in front of the television. He barely has enough time to grab his phone charger from his room—jumping over the couch and sending pillows flying as he lands—before the broadcast starts. He takes a deep breath.  
  
And he sits there, watching, for three hours, without moving.

* * *

Henrik barges into his house, waving phone in hand after removing his shoes.  
  
“What kind of message is “hhronbå,” man?” Henrik asks, “I mean, I figured you wanted to hang out if you're texting me to begin with, so I just invited myself over, but even for you that's a questionable conversation starter.”  
  
“Good, you're here!” Halvard uncharacteristically sighs deeply of relief, standing as he beckons Henrik over to his makeshift blanket fort. The Norwegian commands “watch that and tell me if anything interesting happens,” pointing at the TV before hurrying off to the bathroom.  
  
Henrik obeys, opens a container of crackers, and starts to eat them.

* * *

 “So you're planning on watching this entire thing?”  
  
“Yep.”  
  
“Without sleeping?”  
  
“Ideally.”  
  
“And you texted me because you wanted me to cover for you during bathroom breaks?”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
“Alright,” Henrik nods, glancing at the television as the boat starts to turn ever so slightly. “So, I'm guessing there's going to be no explosions or naval battles this entire broadcast, right? Just. Nature and shit?”  
  
“Mhm.”  
  
“I'm going to get some stuff to do then.”  
  
“Suit yourself.”

* * *

Fourteen hours into the broadcast, Halvard yawns, but his eyes are still wide open as he sits upright in front of the screen.  
  
Henrik, on the other hand, has occupied the couch, with various puzzle magazines taking up the rest of the space. He ran out of coloring books after the sixth hour of being here, and although using the remaining crayons to draw all over Halvard's couch was really tempting, he opted to solve crosswords instead.  
  
“What's a six letter word for quiet?”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
Henrik writes that in the empty boxes and scratches his head with the back of his pencil. “Yeah, I don't think that's right, it needs to have an e in it.”  
  
“No, I mean I'm trying to watch the fjords. In silence.”  
  
“Silence… Silence… Silent. Hey, that works! Thanks buddy!”  
  
Halvard throws a pillow at Henrik's face.

* * *

 “Are you sure you're okay, Halle?”  
  
“Yes,” whispers Halvard, drinking out of a coffee cup that says “World's Most Okayist Brother” the he got from Jóhannes for Christmas last year. Twenty four hours after it started, with the most exciting twist to the broadcast being a bout of rain, Halvard hadn't slept, and it was evident. But he was determined. He had to watch it all. He had to _win_.

* * *

Time, for Halvard, as well as the concept of gravity, ceased to be things he understood after a certain point of forcing himself to stay awake. While Henrik had napped on and off, sometimes snoring sometimes not, Halvard had no time for rest. This was important. The fate of the world depended on him watching this broadcast till the bitter end. He was locked in an inter-dimensional battle with forces he could not quite explain. This was the most important moment in his entire existence.  
  
None of this, however, was true, but as anyone who has stayed up for longer than they should have can tell you, it certainly feels like it is.  
  
“Look at that bridge,” Halvard drawled, rolling over onto his back and his eyes widening in amazement. “Holy fuck. Jesus christ. Look at that shit.”  
  
“That sure is a bridge, Halle,” Henrik nodded, barely glancing up from the newspaper he was reading. “Do you think we're going to go under it?”  
  
Halvard did his best to lift himself off the floor and stared at Henrik with his mouth open and dark rings circling around his eyes. He said nothing, only teetering back and forth as if he had no balance, mouthing Henrik's question over and over again as if it was an alien language.

“Yes?” Halvard said with the certainly of someone who had absolutely no idea what the heck was going on.  
  
“Are you _really_ sure you're alright?”  
  
Another pause as Halvard mouthed those words to himself. He didn't answer, but turned back to the television, and then remembered that the bridge was there and started shouting expletives in regards to its existence.  
  
Henrik sighed and folded the newspaper, his spine cracking as he stood to walk over to where Halvard was sitting, placing his hands on Halvard's shoulders.  
  
“Halle,” Henrik said sweetly, “I think it would be a good idea for you to lie down.”  
  
“No, I have to win.”  
  
“Okay, I understand that. But come with me to the couch so you can at least lie down and watch.”  
  
“I have to fight the bridge.”  
  
“Come on,” and Halvard was lifted up. “Let's go, Halle.”  
  
“ _I'm going to win_.”  
  
“Yep, I'm right here with you, you're definitively going to win,” Henrik laughs while carrying him back. “Come fight the bridge from the couch.”  
  
He lays Halvard down and lets his own lap be a pillow, covering them both with blankets, stroking Halvard's sun-colored hair quietly. Halvard is still awake as they cross under the bridge, letting out a sigh as it is out of sight, and momentarily closes his eyes.  
  
It is eight hours later before he opens them again.

* * *

“Did I sleep?” Halvard asks as he stirs, turning over and rubbing his eyes before opening his arms, non-verbally asking to be held.  
  
“No,” Henrik shakes his head, picking him up and holding him close while glancing at the clock. “You just invented time travel, that's all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurtigruten - Minutt for Minutt was an actual 134 hour television broadcast done by the NRK, following the MS Nordnorge's journey. I had watched some of it (and the previous program of a train ride from Oslo to Bergen) live at the time of broadcasting and thought it was pretty cool, but also potentially really funny in the context of Hetalia. Since then, there has been a 12 hour broadcast of firewood and a 12 hour broadcast of non-stop knitting, among other things, done in a similar style. Good thing for me that the boat ride started on a Thursday and involved today's prompt, fjords!


	5. Friday

Getting ready in the morning is difficult for Halvard. He's the sort of person who slams his alarm clock the minute it goes off and tries to go back to sleep, even though he never does. He, on days where he has nowhere to be and no plans predetermined, will lie in bed for over an hour in a stage of mid-sleep before getting up, getting coffee, drinking it in bed, and often times trying to sleep again despite the caffeine boost. As an insomniac, he's always tired, clinging to his bedsheets as long as he can to attempt to squeeze even one more minute of rest from them before he faces the day.  
  
Henrik is the exact opposite.  
  
Henrik is amazing in the fact that he is both a heavy sleeper and an easy sleeper. He falls asleep within minutes, and while he too pounds his alarm off, he only goes back to bed if he's sick. He greets the day with a smile even before he's had coffee. If he wants to take a quick nap he just has to close his eyes and relax. Halvard, on the other hand, cannot nap unless it's by accident. Sometimes on days when he hasn't had a good night of sleep for several nights, he'll rest his head on the table for a minute and wake up later alone, often times with a blanket around him and objects precariously balanced on his head (which is usually done by his younger brother who then takes pictures of it, although Berwald is also known for making cute origami figures out of scratch paper).  
  
Halvard has not slept well. His hair is a mess, he can feel his own drool dried on the side of his face, and while he's sitting up in bed with coffee in his hands, he's not drinking it.  
  
Henrik, despite only being up for ten minutes, is humming to himself as he wanders in and out of the room. He is the one who made coffee this morning and began the delicate process of trying to get Halvard actually awake. Today is Friday, there are things to be done before the lazy weekend, and thus getting up is, unfortunately, a necessity.  
  
Halvard slowly takes the first sip as he hears the shower start, more humming, and then flat out singing.  
  
At first there's only a short melody—it's a song that Henrik heard for the first time during his trip yesterday to Halvard's house, so he only knows the chorus—and then there's nothing. The sound of Henrik dropping the soap bottle and putting it back where it belonged. And then, more singing, much louder than before.  
  
“Who's gonna love you, who's gonna take my place and stand by your side?” Henrik's voice echoes out of the bathroom with ease, for he didn't close the door, “Kiss you and hold you, console you when you cry?”  
  
He stops. The shower stops, too. Halvard narrows his eyes. Henrik sings another line. More silence.  
  
“Baby, don't gooooooooo!” Henrik suddenly bellows and runs out of the bathroom, his arms dramatically gesturing as he stops to stand firmly in the middle of the bedroom, his hair wet and covered in white soap bubbles, with no clothes on.  
  
Halvard only stares blankly as Henrik doesn't waste a moment to move directly into the chorus, serenading with all of his heart as he sensually moves his hands through his hair, still working in the shampoo between dance moves.  
  
“You're dripping water all over the floor, Henrik,” he says dryly, but is drowned by the impact of Henrik jumping.  
  
“Don't make me force you back into the shower.”  
  
“ _I swear I'm never gonna leave you, cara cara mia_!”  
  
“Henrik,” comes out of Halvard's mouth very sharply. “Isn't that a _Swedish_ song?”  
  
Mid-note, Henrik stops singing, his expression almost horrified. They stare directly at each other for several seconds.  
  
“You're breaking my _heaaaart_!” Henrik sing-exclaims, skipping to a later verse in the song, and walks backwards into the bathroom, nearly missing the entrance. Halvard can't see him anymore. The shower turns on. And while there's noise, there's no humming or singing.  
  
_He's mad,_ _probably_ _._ Halvard thinks. _Maybe upset?_  
  
With a sigh, Halvard places his coffee mug on the bedside table, slowly sliding out of bed and onto his feet before walking, with great purpose, to the bathroom. He pulls back the shower curtain slightly, poking his head in, and finds Henrik quizzically looking back at him, most of the soap now washed out of his hair.  
  
“We can be happy again,” Halvard sings quietly, hesitating, curling his fingers around the shower curtain. “Don't you feel that it's burning inside, burning inside?”  
  
With that single line, Halvard is forgiven, and Henrik beams with delight and chimes in without missing a beat. “We can't give up on each other, I want us to try.”  
  
They sing the rest of the song together, and while Henrik's dance moves steal the show, Halvard half-dances, but not at all halfheartedly.

* * *

“I'm pretty sure that was a first,” is the only thing Henrik says to him after his shower, pulling a shirt over his semi-wet hair.  
  
“The first what?”  
  
“Time we've done that.”  
  
“Done _what_.”  
  
“That whole scenario! We've sang in the shower together separately, and we've sang while both in the shower together, but I'm pretty sure that's the first time we've sang together in the bathroom with only one of us showering.”  
  
“Hm,” a small smile, and Halvard drinks the rest of his coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song mentioned is Cara Mia by Måns Zelmerlöw. Which I have not been able to get out of my head for weeks now. Please save me.


	6. Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is late because I was busy on Saturday! But it's done!
> 
> No food is directly mentioned but there's an object shaped like one.

Another Saturday. Another world meeting later that day. Another pre-gathering in a hotel room far from home amongst the Nordics.  
  
“I'm not saying that he can't do what he wants,” Jóhannes sighed, smoothing down the pockets of his suit, “But there has to be something in the dress code that says that this is not allowed!”  
  
“Barrettes and hair ornaments are allowed at official meetings,” Tino chimed, lying across one of the beds and tapping rapidly at a game on his phone screen. “I checked the procedure, he's in the clear.”  
  
Jóhannes touched his palms to his forehead and grimaced. “No, I understand that...”  
  
And then he started yelling.  
  
“But _twenty-seven_?! Tino. You do realize that Halle has _TWENTY-SEVEN_ barrettes in his hair at this very instant and he's going to show up and give a huge speech at this world meeting with _TWENTY-SEVEN_ different barrettes in his hair! Have you seen him Tino? He looks ridiculous! He's so embarrassing! Nobody is going to take climate change seriously!”  
  
“Surely there's a reason,” Tino looked up as a notification sounds to let him know he cleared the level, “As to why he's doing that. Have you asked him?”  
  
The youngest member of the Nordics stopped pacing around the room and sits down next to Tino, sighing loudly. He tried to remain still but found himself rising to his feet and pacing again as he started to explain.  
  
“Yeah, he can't find his regular clip. And I understand why that's bothering him, really, I do. But remember the time I broke Berwald's glasses before a meeting on accident? I apologized and stayed next to him so I could read to him things that he couldn't see. And I know he was irritated that his vision was blurry, but he at least he didn't go off and wear _twenty-seven_ glasses to compensate!”  
  
“Mor' like fifty now,” Berwald corrected, glancing into the bathroom.  
  
“Fifty. _Fifty_?! Berwald, Berwald please. You have to talk some sense into him!”  
  
“Halle's done weirder things. This ain't that weird for him. Why don't ya do it yerself if you're so concerned?”  
  
“I tried! He kicked me out of the bathroom! Berwald, you're the only one who can do this.”  
  
Berwald shrugged, but motioned that he'd try his best.

* * *

When Berwald came back several minutes later, his entire head was covered in barrettes of various sizes, shapes, and colors. He sat down next to Tino while Jóhannes frowned, biting his lip, while waiting for Berwald to respond.  
  
“He said no,” Berwald told him, “An' he had a message for you, too.”  
  
The Swede turned his head so Jóhannes could see a barrette that looked like a stop sign and pointed at it.  
  
“Where is he even getting these?!”  
  
Tino, who had gone back to his game in Berwald's absence, glanced up and smiled. “Hey, Berwald, can I have that one with the flower on it? It's really cute.”  
  
“ _Not you too_!” Jóhannes screeched in horror as Berwald nodded and clipped it neatly in Tino's hair. “I have had it with this family!”  
  
"Gosh, what do you have against cute accessories?"  
  
"Tino that's not-"  
  
It was at that point in which Halvard emerged from the bathroom, his face stone cold, with at least a hundred clips on his head. In his hands he held several more barrettes, but had ran out of his own hair to put them into. He glanced at Berwald, who did nothing, and Tino, who waved, before settling his focus on his younger brother.  
  
Jóhannes, who had been been livid only moments before, met his brother with an equally harsh stare.  
  
The showdown lasted for several minutes before Halvard took a step forward. And another. And another. Until he was in arm's length of his sibling. Jóhannes, although something deep in his mind told him to flee, stayed still and steady.  
  
Halvard looked down at his fist full of clips, selected one with a black bird on it, opened the clasp, and attempted to put it into his brother's hair. Jóhannes smacked his hand away. Halvard tried again. Jóhannes blocked. Again. Parry. A quick jab. A step back. Not a word. A pause, no movement.  
  
Then Halvard tackled his brother to the floor using the force of his body weight and Jóhannes' shaky sense of balance to his advantage, pinning him down as best he could while still trying to force the barrette into his brother's soft hair.  
  
“HALLE!” Jóhannes exclaimed before swearing and attempting to swat his brother away, nearly punching him the face. With one clip successfully attached, Halvard readied another, and with his aim improving, made another hit. Two down, twenty-five to go.  
  
As the struggle continued (and Tino chanted support for the fight), Berwald sighed and stood up, shuffling over to attempt to pull Halvard off of Jóhannes.  
  
“Uh, hey.”  
  
Everyone paused and turned towards the doorway, with Jóhannes mid-flail, Tino mid-fist pump, Berwald mid-lift, and Halvard in the process of clipping barrettes both onto Jóhannes' hair and Berwald's shirt at the same time.  
  
“How's it going...?” Henrik asked hesitantly, scratching his head.

* * *

  
“I had left you a note, you know, so you wouldn't freak out when you woke up,” Henrik said, unclipping barrettes from Halvard's hair one by one in front of the bathroom mirror, “But I guess you didn't notice it?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Henrik nodded and unclipped a few more. “It happens. You should apologize to your brother though. For tackling him, I mean, at the very least.”  
  
“I already did. He mumbled, but he forgave me too. He still has the first one I put in his hair first though, I don't think he noticed.”  
  
“No, I think he knows it's there, but he feels left out now that Berwald and Tino are going to wear one to the meeting too.”  
  
“Which one did Berwald keep?”  
  
“The orange slice.”  
  
“That's a good one.”  
  
“I agree, it suits him.”  
  
A pause as the final clip was removed, and Henrik started to brush Halvard's hair, parting and sweeping it the way it normally hung off his face. He then clipped the cross hairpin where it belonged, patted Halvard on the head, and grinned.  
  
“I do think that you should've told me in person you were going to get it polished, though,” Halvard sighed.  
  
“I wanted it to be a surprise, and I guess it still was, just not in the way I had planned it. But you're right, I'm sorry.”  
  
Halvard sorted through the barrettes piled around the bathroom counter, his fingers passing over them with the same sort of hesitation a magician makes before choosing the correct card from a deck. He made his choice and palmed it, so as not allowing for Henrik to see. Halvard spun Henrik around with him so that he couldn't see the mirror and reached up to clip it in snugly.  
  
Henrik only took a look at himself after Halvard hurriedly left the room.  
  
The five of them take a photo after the meeting concludes, each of them with a barrette.  
  
A cross.  
  
Half an orange.  
  
A white flower.  
  
A black bird.  
  
A red heart.


	7. Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Food and alcohol mentions as a warning!
> 
> I had a lot of fun participating in this, I hope other people did too! Thanks so much for reading, I appreciate it.

A spring day in Copenhagen, a few weeks later. Not a cloud in the sky. Average.  
  
For Halvard, at least it is, because after living as long as he has, most days have an average feel to them. That doesn't mean he finds the sunlight unpleasant as he paints the side of Henrik's house with paintbrush held high above his head, but days are simply days to him at this point in his life. If it remains sunny on this Sunday, like the meteorologist's report said it would, this old house will seem refreshed as new paint glistens in the light. But it's the same house at the end of the day. Days are the same way. The events that transpire over the days of the week are only coats of paint splattered in different ways. Therefore, today is a day, just like every other day, and there is nothing remotely significant about it.  
  
Today is also Halvard's birthday. The Danish radio station made a brief mention of that between songs, wishing their neighbor to the north the very best. He's full of pride today, as his people are too, but at his core he's neither excited or disappointed. He's had many birthdays, some of laughter and others of sadness, and for a man as old as he is—who has no idea _how_ old he is—birthdays have become pointless.  
  
Henrik laughs, pointing at him and saying that he has red paint-freckles dotting his face. He adds that it's cute, that Halvard is cute, and that in comparison to the accidental streaks of paint all over Henrik's forearms, Halvard is practically a work of modern art.  
  
Today has been eventful. Henrik nearly fell off a ladder, Halvard choked on his lemonade when they took a lunch break. Mistakes are made, no matter how old or skillful you are.  
  
Sunday is said to be the holiest of the seven days, the day of worship and the day of rest. For these two fools, it is none of those things.  
  
Henrik wipes sweat from his brow and looks at their collective handiwork, his house shining the same color as his nation's flag. Halvard had insisted that they do this today—on HIS day no less—which was something unexpected. But Halvard Sørensen has never been a particularly predictable person. And perhaps it was with great honor that painting Henrik's house was up higher on the want list than celebrating back in his home country.  
  
Henrik had even suggested that he'd go back to Norway with Halvard once they were done painting, but Halvard had refused, saying it would be too much for one day. “If I have one birthday request this year, it is to work hard but also not overwhelm myself,” he explained. “Home isn't going anywhere. It'll be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, hopefully until the end of time.”  
  
Henrik could only nod when Halvard said that.  
  
“It looks good, you think?” Henrik asks.  
  
“Suitable,” Halvard mumbles, closing a paint bucket and placing his brush down, already focused on cleaning up. Henrik takes notice of this and sings along with the radio while helping.  
  
As the sun starts to lower, they crack open beers on the porch, clinking their bottles together, and drink.  
  
“Why do you have Norwegian beer?” Halvard asks after taking a sip and then checking the label to see if he was correct.  
  
“Well, it is _your_ birthday.”  
  
The radio hums on.  
  
“You didn't have to.”  
  
“Halle,” Henrik sighs, “There's a lot of things that I don't have to do, but I do them anyway, because I care about the people around me.”  
  
He bumps his bottle against Halvard's head gently. “Happy birthday, buddy.”  
  
Halvard's voice is just a whisper, but he says thank you.

* * *

Another beer, and they're slow dancing on the porch. The radio is playing a Norwegian song, one that Halvard knows the lyrics to. His voice is airy, fleeting, soft, as it has always been, something alluring and captivating in the very way he breathes. So Henrik closes his eyes and trusts Halvard to lead him as they turn this tiny porch into a dance stage.  
  
_Me delte på en hemmelighet  
Drømmene dine som me grov ner  
  
_ Halvard doesn't know this yet, but there is cake waiting for him inside the house, in the same location as the cake he took for himself when he visited prior. There's no text on it, no candles numerically displaying his age, only simple geometrical decorations. The cake is from a local shop, specializing in small desserts, that Henrik frequents when he craves something sweet. There's some birthdays, like last year where half of Europe came to Norway to bring Halvard their wishes, that demands cake of extravagance. _  
  
De vokste opp av bakken når det regna ner_  
_Nå trenger det aldri å regna meir_  
  
But Halvard, despite his complexities, is also a very simple person at heart. His cake suits him this year. Practical, with it only serving two people. Strong, with a rich flavor. And just slightly whimsical, with the way the icing takes sharp angles and spirals at the same time. He will be happy, and will claim two-thirds of the cake for himself, not regretting a bite.  
  
_Eg såg det for meg i frå mi seng  
Drømmer som vokste som ei blomstereng_  
  
They turn, Halvard careful not to send them both slamming into the door, and he slows their dance until it's nothing but rocking together, Halvard's head resting neatly in the crook of Henrik's neck, singing softly.  
  
Tonight, after they eat cake, they'll probably play a game of chess. Despite Halvard outclassing him anyway, Henrik will purposefully try to lose to assure his defeat. Neither of them will stay up past midnight, curling up into bed and speaking quietly about what the new day will bring. Henrik will fall asleep as fast as ever and Halvard's birthday present from the world will be a night in which his insomnia is lifted from him, slumbering just as peacefully to the sound of Henrik's falling breath.  
  
But for now, Halvard embraces Henrik before letting go, their fingers intertwining briefly before Halvard slips out of them.  
  
_Nå er det en heilt spesiell og vakker dag_  
_Reisen kan begynna nå som me er i lag_  
  
Halvard, for the first time in twenty years, gives Henrik the biggest smile he can possibly muster.  
  
Tomorrow, the cycle repeats itself, and we begin anew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is Sekskløver (six-leaf clover in English) by Kaizers Orchestra, who sing in Nynorsk Norwegian. The translation of the lyrics I used is below, from a Kaizers Orchestra fansite:
> 
> We shared a secret  
> Your dreams that we dug in  
> They grew out of the ground when it rained down  
> Now it never needs to rain anymore  
> I envisioned it from my bed  
> Dreams that grew like a flower meadow  
> Now it is a very special and beautiful day  
> The journey can begin, now that we are together


End file.
